


The Devil's in the Details

by nox_candida



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case-Related Death, Dom/sub, F/M, First Time, Genderswap, Humor, Masturbation, Not Series 2 Compliant, Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 05:16:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/pseuds/nox_candida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jane Watson meets Greg Lestrade and sees in him a man who needs something very specific and she wants, more than anything, to give that to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil's in the Details

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt at sherlockbbc_fic: "Lestrade has always enjoyed being a submissive partner on occasion but rarely has had a partner who was comfortable fulfilling this need, so he does without. Not that he doesn't enjoy sex without power exchange, but lately he's been very tired and stressed and just really, really wants to let go with someone he trusts.
> 
> I just want a story where his wife/girlfriend realizes the importance of his submissive needs and takes steps to fulfill them."

The first time they meet, he ignores her completely.

“Will you come?” he asks her prospective flatmate.

 _She_ notices _him_ , though. His hair is grey, his eyes are weary and he’s treading water—not pulled under, she thinks, but not making any headway, either. A holding pattern.

It’s in her nature to want to fix things—people. It’s why she became a doctor, and she doesn’t observe the world the same way that Sherlock does—no one does (a fact she finds out later is a lie, but for now is true)—but she’s always been decent at reading people and the signs are all there.

Here is a man who is tired, burdened by trouble. Atlas with the world on his shoulders.

People are not magnets and, in this case, like is attracted to like.

She’s always been attracted to brokenness because she’s broken, too. 

*

The second time they meet (the first time they meet at a crime scene), he barely glances at her.

She isn’t terribly surprised by this; she’s diminished in every sense of the word, less herself than she’s ever been. Her body is thin—not in that attractive way of athletic women, nor in that frankly terrifying way of supermodels—but awkward, small, forever in her own way if in no one else’s. And mentally, emotionally, spiritually, she's even thinner; torn and worn paper, see through, with rips and tears around the edges and the writing blurred and smudged.

Her face and her skin are beige. Her life has turned dull; her life’s blood, the bright, bold colours of her life, the interesting bits of Jane Watson, have been bleached out in the sun and the scrub of Afghanistan.

Even the blue of the suit she wears at the crime scene is faded, unremarkable. Only Sherlock sees, but that’s because he sees everything.

It’s a bit like being trapped in a beige office at the top of a tall glass building; she can see all the people beneath her, but they can’t see her—they don’t look up, only at each other—and they’re so far away that they don’t look the way she remembers normal people looking.

So when Sherlock abandons her and she glances at the tired, grey man, she feels that they’re similar shades of different colours. She’s invisible and he’s slowly fading.

*

The third time they meet, he dismisses her.

She isn’t offended because she’s rediscovered some part of herself that she’d thought lost forever. She isn’t whole, but the hope is there, a shadow trailing after her as she trails after Sherlock.

And he’s not as grey as he was, and she thinks it’s because he has some hope, too (it’s different from hers—similar, but not the same).

He looks her in the eye, speaks to her, but only because she speaks to him first. It’s clear to her, though, that he doesn’t think much of her, barely gives her a thought at all, until...

“Why’d he do that? Why’d he have to leave?

It’s the first time he’s really noticed her—even if they’re still talking about Sherlock—and she feels herself perk up just a bit.

She shrugs. “You know him better than I do.”

She’s not a girl who fawns over men—she’s never needed them and she’s always liked it better when _they_ needed _her_ —but his world weariness draws her in, like the sweets that lead to the wicked witch’s cottage.

“I’ve known him for five years and no, I don’t.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that. “So why do you put up with him?”

“Because I’m desperate, I suppose.”

And she sees it, different from the weariness, from the fadedness, from the grey. It’s vulnerability, a sweet siren song to some deep part of her that wants to fix him, to run her fingers though his hair, to smooth away the wrinkles on his brow. To take his pain and his cares away.

Almost before she can process the mental image, he’s leaving. But he turns to tell her one more thing.

“Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he might be a good one.”

Jane Watson thinks that the man before her—this greying, tired, weary, faded, fascinating, vulnerable, important man—knows whereof he speaks.

**

The second time they meet at a crime scene is the first time he sees her as a distinct person.

“Doctor Watson,” he greets her with a small nod. He opens his mouth as if to say something else, but Sherlock jumps in before he gets the chance.

“Jane, come here and look at this.”

She sends the Detective Inspector a small smile and walks over to where Sherlock is bending over the corpse of a little girl, her dark hair fanned out around her head. She looks as though she’s sleeping, her hands drawn up to her chest, clutching a small doll.

It’s crushing—disgusting, horrifying, tragic—but she knows (already, she knows) that no one needs those words. Most of them know, and Sherlock won’t care. So she stays silent and inspects the body as closely as she can while doing her best to push the visceral emotional reaction away.

“Well?” Sherlock prompts her, impatient.

She looks up at him, but her eyes are arrested by the sight of the Detective Inspector, who is watching them intently. The weariness is back, the fadedness; he wears his exhaustion like a cloak. If he were moving, it would be in slow motion, the gait of the doomed.

Their eyes meet and she wants to communicate that this is the darkest part, the hardest part, that it will get better from here. She wants him to know that it’s okay to feel this now but he can’t hold it with him forever, that he will have to make his peace with it someday.

It’s brief, though, and she hasn’t quite learned his language yet. She will, though, and soon.

She turns to Sherlock. “Strangulation,” she says, because she recognises what happens to skin and eyes when the body is deprived of necessary oxygen. And there’s more. “She was tied up,” she continues quietly, painfully. “And she struggled.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, already focused inward, deducing. “And not sexually assaulted.”

Jane nods. At least there’s that, she thinks. Thank God for small mercies—drop in the ocean though it may be.

Sherlock jumps up and Jane tracks him with her eyes. Until he walks past the Detective Inspector, that is, and Jane looks at him, instead. He looks sick with grief and anger, buried under a mountain of work and stress. A man in desperate need of relief.

She may not speak his language quite yet, but the look in his eyes, the set of his shoulders and the way his chin is tilted downwards—that’s universal.

She thinks she must look much the same way.

“Well, Sherlock?” Detective Inspector Lestrade asks, too tired and weary and worn to snap or be impatient.

“The father did it,” Sherlock says, waving his hand dismissively. “I’d recheck his alibi; he was definitely not at the pub last night.”

And with that pronouncement, Sherlock sweeps dramatically from the room. “Come on, Jane!” he calls out, though she suspects he won’t wait for her.

She stands up and walks past the Detective Inspector as he calls Donovan over and tells her to take DC Clark over to the father’s house to re-interview the man.

Jane is going to walk past—expecting, as before, to receive no acknowledgement—when he turns to look at her.

This case—it’s a copycat, but she knows from Sherlock that the DI worked the original case—is one more load on his already overburdened conscious. She wonders what the last piece will be—the proverbial straw—and what will happen when it settles onto him.

Their eyes meet and she has that urge, again, to reach out and touch—sooth it away with her hands and with her words—but there’s a barrier between them that she hasn’t come close to breaching yet.

He nods at her, resigned, before turning away. Any words she might have said get caught in her throat and, nothing else for it, she follows in Sherlock’s wake.

She dreams of him that night, she thinks, but she isn’t sure; it’s a voice carried on the wind, asking for help, drifting further and further away the harder she tries to find it.

*

The first time she sees him outside of a crime scene or a drugs bust is in a pub, and he’s well on his way to getting pissed.

When they’d wrapped up the case—it was, indeed, the father, who’d beat his daughter to exorcise his own demons—Donovan had turned to her and asked her down the pub for a post-case binge.

She’d thought about saying no, but Donovan wasn’t a bad sort and the case had left a bitter taste in her mouth. She needed an escape and if she couldn’t have the one she wanted, she’d take liquor as a last resort.

Her drink of choice is, coincidentally, the same as his: whisky. He’s drinking the cheap swill, though, while she’s got a lovely 18-year-old Glenlivet.

The same and not the same.

They don’t speak much, though. She mostly talks to Donovan and a nice bloke named Will who chats her up while waiting for his Sex on the Beach—which she mentally sneers at.

Gradually, though, the rest of the invitees to this “Drown One’s Sorrow” party depart, leaving just the two of them.

He’s silent, staring into his glass, and she quietly sips hers and watches the football highlights with only the minimum amount of interest.

“These are the worst,” he says hoarsely, rusty from disuse. He’s been silent and focused completely inward since she arrived.

She nods and says nothing. She’s good at being a sounding board, and she suspects that reaching out, speaking words into the silence, would be useless at this moment.

“She was only twelve,” he says again and finishes the whiskey left in his glass in one swallow.

She says nothing again, but leans towards him, as if—with her small, thin body—she can block out the thoughts, protect him from the pain. It doesn’t work like that, of course—she knows this, has been where he is too many times to recount. She knows all about that pain, about loss, about how the burden of the whole wide world can crush a person to the ground without an outlet. Hers—she discovered early on—is to block out the bits of the world she can’t control and to exercise total control over the bits she can.

Sometimes it’s as simple as losing herself in medical journals or exercise; other times, it’s finding the right sort of man—one who’s needy, but in a different way—and taking him completely apart with her hands, and her voice, and her toys.

She always puts them back together, like a puzzle; she carefully and gently collects the pieces and turns them this way and that to find the seams and edges and mends them. She was always top of her class in stitching and neatness and—when she’s done—no one else ever really knows.

The Detective Inspector strikes her as a complimentary piece in that he enjoys being taken apart, relieved of responsibility. Lost. Not all the time, perhaps—at least, she thinks not—but just sometimes, like now, when the world is too much and he needs a vacation from himself and his real life.

She could do it, if he’d let her. She hopes he’ll let her.

“You know,” he says, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

It’s really almost a question and a statement in one: _you know what I mean,_ it says/asks, _you’ve been here before_. And it asks, _do you know? What I need, how I feel? Do you know about the pain and the toll it takes? How difficult it is to bear?_

And she answers simply and straightforward. Because yes is the answer to all of it.

*

After that, she stops counting.

They see each other at crime scenes and he acknowledges her—more than just a colleague of Sherlock’s, but less than a friend—and she watches the weight of the world weigh him down.

But she will not go to him with this, she will not make the first move. She is becoming more adept at reading him—more fluent in his nonverbal language—and she realises that he has to ask for this.

And she knows he won’t ask until he trusts her, until he could be completely certain that she will catch him when he falls.

They’re not there yet, but maybe someday.

**

The next time she sees him Anderson is being absolutely atrocious to Sherlock.

It’s not a surprise, of course, but that doesn’t mean it’s not irritating. Anderson’s bad behaviour probably has something to do with Donovan dumping him ( _about damn time_ , Jane thinks) and is compounded by the fact that Sherlock is acting like a complete prat. The two are oil and water at the best of times.

This is not the best of times.

“Oi, Freak!” Anderson snarls at Sherlock who, once again, has trod all over some piece of what he deems evidence and Sherlock deems inconsequential. “I told you not to walk all over my crime scene!”

It isn’t helping anyone that Donovan has begun seeing DS Hopkins and the two are standing rather close to each other right in Anderson’s line of sight.

Detective Inspector Lestrade looks weary and frustrated, and he keeps rubbing at the bridge of his nose as if he’s developing a headache. Jane would not be at all surprised if he was—she can feel her own making itself known at her temples, throbbing menacingly.

“Anderson,” Sherlock sneers contemptuously, “I can’t expect you to understand this as it’s above your IQ level, but you can collect flowers for your collection later. Some of us have _real_ work to do.”

Anderson splutters in righteous indignation—and embarrassment—before he evidently decides to hell with it and goes for Sherlock’s throat.

He never makes it, of course. Jane has already launched herself between the two—closer to them than Detective Inspector Lestrade, who’d moved away to address a DC securing the perimeter of the scene—and pulls herself up to her full height. “Back off,” she tells him in her best Captain Watson voice.

Anderson stops in front of her, looking startled, before drawing his lip back in a sneer. She knows more or less what he’s about to say when his eyes flick to Sherlock who is standing still behind her.

“Let me save you from yourself,” she says, tone steely and no-nonsense, “before you say something incredibly stupid and misogynistic. Reign it in and show some professionalism. Lay off the personal insults. Process the scene, as usual,” she orders, “and just ignore him,” she finishes, jerking her head to indicate Sherlock.

Anderson stares at her, but her stance is all military and says loud and clear _do not fuck with me, because I can put you in a hospital before you even blink._ He backs down with a glare at the pair of them and turns to do his work.

She’s not done yet, though.

Turning, she faces Sherlock, who has a smug, superior look on his face. Lowering her voice, she glares at him. “And you can wipe that look off your face. We’re here at _their_ invitation, so observe the details and deduce what happened with a minimum of harassment Sherlock or—so help me God—I will bin every single one of your experiments. _Especially_ the animal blood samples in the bath. Do you understand me?”

Sherlock looks stunned momentarily, before being swiftly replaced by a look that manages to be at once outraged and scandalised. “Those are very important,” he argues, “or do _you_ want to be responsible for allowing a murderer to go free?”

“That would be incredibly convincing if I didn’t happen to _know_ that this is the only case you have on,” she rebuts promptly, and then forestalls any further attempts on his part to manipulate her. “You were complaining just yesterday that the criminal classes had sunk to new lows of ineptitude and unoriginality. So, you have a fairly interesting case before you. Amaze us.”

Sherlock glares at her—and she knows he’ll be absolutely hell to deal with after the case is over—but he refocuses on the scene and she looks around her at the rest of them. They’re studiously not looking at her, which she just takes to mean that they _were_ staring until Sherlock stopped talking. 

She holds her chin up defiantly and walks over to one of the walls to prop herself against, her leg throbbing as a result of the wrong sort of stress.

“Watson,” he says to her in an undertone, “thank you. You’re a miracle worker.”

“It’s what I do,” she replies with a light tone and a sly look over at him.

He raises an eyebrow at her, and there’s this moment where their eyes connect. The world falls away—it’s like freefalling, where the only thing real, the only thing to hold onto, is the open look in his eyes, the subconscious pleading. It’s a hook into her stomach, into her chest, and she’s slowly being reeled in, the sheer need and desire there almost overwhelming.

It’s over in the blink of an eye, and his lips twitch briefly—maybe an aborted smile? Or something deeper, darker…?—before his eyes slide down and away, his head tilted so that she has a good view of the side of his neck and the straight, firm lines of his jaw.

She wants to dig her nails in there—just there, from right beneath his right ear to his Adam’s Apple—and watch the lines turn red. The contrast with the rest of his honey-coloured skin would be lovely, and then she would run her tongue over the lines—hot, wet, soothing and stinging.

He looks delicious from this angle.

*

When the case is over, when the murderer is caught, Sherlock is predictably difficult before he’s done burning the fuel he’s stored up and crashes spectacularly onto the sofa, dead to the world.

She goes up to her room, strips naked and lies flat on her bed.

She thinks about him as she gets her vibrator from her bedside table—the way his head tilted down and away, how his eyes couldn’t really rest on her. And, most of all, she thinks about that moment when their eyes _did_ meet. She thinks about the need in them.

In her mind, she can see how it would be. He’d be on his knees, looking down demurely, and he’d be naked. And she would sit in a chair in front of him, her legs flung over his shoulders, as she ordered him to mouth her, to tongue her, to pleasure her.

He wouldn’t get it right at first— _she presses the vibrator against her clit, pinches hard at her nipples and moans quietly_ —but he’d be a quick study and so very eager to please.

He’d call her Mistress, and he would look up at her from his position between her legs— _she rocks her hips harder, squeezes her eyes tight and she can see him, God yes, just like that_ —and slowly but surely, that look of quiet desperation would disappear, replaced by something blurred and soft and dreamy. 

His hair, it’d feel simply fantastic in her fingers and she’d grab handfuls of it, hold his mouth tight to her, still giving him instructions, still urging him to let go, to surrender— _almost there, almost there_ —and she can just imagine what his tongue would feel like inside of her—

She comes quietly, but intensely, the blood pounding so hard through her body that she’s literally shaking with it. She hasn’t had an orgasm that intense—that _good_ —in quite some time.

Maybe she should feel guilty or ashamed of explicitly imaging an acquaintance—friend?—in such a way, but she doesn’t. She can’t, because she wants him and she thinks—she hopes—that he wants her, too.

*

The next day when she walks down the stairs to the kitchen, Sherlock is draped across the sofa and awake.

“Morning,” she greets him sleepily, making for the kitchen while absent-mindedly running her fingers through her hair.

There’s no answer—unsurprisingly. She pays it no mind and begins her morning ritual of making tea and inspecting the contents of the fridge to see if they have something in suitable for breakfast or—more likely—she’s going to have to make do with toast and do a shop later.

“Tea?” she asks her flatmate, but it’s basically a rhetorical question because she’s putting enough water in the kettle for two and pulling a second mug down from the cupboard.

“Mmm,” she hears from the other room, which sounds like a vaguely positive response.

All pretty much par for the course after a case, so she thinks nothing of it until the tea is done and she’s walking into the sitting room to place the mug on the coffee table within Sherlock’s reach.

“He’d say yes, you know,” Sherlock says—seemingly apropos of nothing—but the non sequitur surprises her enough that she’s glad he waited to speak until she’d set the mug down.

“Who would say yes to what?” she asks, once she’s regained her equilibrium.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock answers, his piercing gaze settling on her.

She shouldn’t be surprised—no, really, she _shouldn’t_ because it’s Sherlock and he’s brilliant and insightful and irritating, annoying and audacious and has no sense of shame or self-preservation whatsoever.

She shouldn’t be surprised, but she is, and her fingers clutch convulsively on her mug, her lips automatically drawn into a tense line.

“He has submissive tendencies and you are attracted to that in him,” Sherlock continues, heedless of the change in her demeanour. 

“Sherlock,” she warns, her fingers burning slightly from the still too-warm cup, but sighs when she sees how the warning fails utterly to intimidate him.

The fact that he knows this about her is just one more invasion of privacy in a long list of them—perhaps the most upsetting of them all—but it’s just how he is; it’s like trying to be upset at the sun for shining.

Still, it’s not something she wants generally known; she’s not ashamed—not at all, because being ashamed of it would diminish her enjoyment, her pleasure, and her ability to, in turn, please and care for her partners. But it is intimate, private, something she guards closely because of how little people generally understand or relate. It’s a need, deep in her soul, and having it bandied about over the water cooler is tantamount to trivialising some part of who she is as a person.

Sherlock, for all his brilliance, doesn’t understand this. His work fills this need for him, and everyone knows about the enjoyment he takes in it. The only secrets he buries inside are the ones that he hides even from himself.

But he’s staring at her now, waiting for a reaction, and she sighs, shakes her head ruefully. “I’d worked as much out for myself,” she tells him, honestly, “but that’s not how this goes.”

He cocks his head to the side, considering and surprised at her answers perhaps.

“I know it’s not how you’re used to doing things, but it requires...subtlety.” At the outraged look on his face, she chuckles slightly despite herself. “Caution,” she clarifies. “He has to come to me.”

“Why?” he asks, sounding as if she’s said something especially stupid.

“Because then I’ll know he wants it, and I’ll know he trusts me enough—knows me well enough—to know that I’ll take care of him.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at her answer and she can just tell he thinks that she’s being ridiculous or boring. But she knew he wouldn’t understand because it’s anathema to the way he works. He jumps in with both feet when he wants something—especially when there’s risk or danger. Normally she’s the same way—it’s part of the reason they get on so well—but this is different.

When they risk their lives, it’s only their own physical existences that they’re endangering; with something like this, it’s so much more. It’s a person’s sense of self—their comfort, security, sanity. And, more than that, it’s someone else’s, not her own. She cannot—will not—hurt someone else so profoundly, so deeply, when it’s within her power to save them from that. Especially when it’s someone that she genuinely likes and respects.

Besides, there’s something of a thrill in the hunt—of lying in wait, camouflaged, biding her time until the right moment. There’s danger and excitement in anticipation as much as in the accomplishment of the goal.

She’s still relishing that bit. No rush. At least, not yet.

*

Eight days later, she saves Lestrade’s life.

Sherlock had told her to go with Lestrade and his team to serve the warrant on the flat of their serial murderer—routine, almost insulting really, and she would have called him on it if he hadn’t sent her a look which said, quite clearly, that he was attempting to play matchmaker and she shouldn’t be stupid by ruining the opportunity.

She’d been sorely tempted to point out that he obviously hadn’t been listening to her when they’d discussed this earlier, but only the thought that someone might overhear their conversation and misconstrue it—or, worse, completely understand the conversation and spread the news—had stopped her protests.

She’d been torn between thinking it sweet—if distinctly _Sherlock_ —and being annoyed, so she settled for sending him a Look, which promised that they would Discuss This Later, Sherlock. And he’d ignored it, naturally, but she’d get her point across one way or another, so help her.

As it is, they’d had very little time for conversation—nonverbal or otherwise—before Lestrade marched out of his office and in her direction, shrugging into his coat and generally looking harassed and put-upon (which was common for him whenever Sherlock was around). And then they were out the door and on their way to the murderer’s flat.

No one—not even Sherlock—had expected the man to be present.

The team had been in the bedroom after forcing entry when no one opened the door, searching for the evidence that Sherlock had said would be there.

The evidence—panties from each of the dead women—that hadn’t been where Sherlock had said it would be.

“It’s not here,” Donovan mutters to him, sounding mutinous.

Lestrade sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose—a telltale sign of just how frustrated and stressed he is. “All right. Take Jones and Hopkins to search the rest of the flat.”

Donovan does, with alacrity, but Jane opts to stay behind in case they’ve missed something. She expects, of course, that he’ll follow the rest of the team to search the remainder of the flat, but he surprises her by staying put. A few moments of silence stretch out between them and she wonders if he’s going to say anything at all when he clears his throat. “So…you and Sherlock…”

“Hmm?” she asks, not really paying attention as she’s currently searching under the bed.

“Uh, you and Sherlock, are you, you know….together?”

“What?” she asks, her attention suddenly on him as she straightens up to look at him in disbelief. He raises an eyebrow at her and she shakes her head, starting to laugh. “What made you ask that?”

He shrugs. “There’s a betting pool and I was hoping to get some inside information,” he says, grinning cheekily.

She rolls her eyes and goes back to her search. “No, definitely not together. Apart from the fact that he told me the second time we met that he was married to his work—”

“He said that?” he interrupts, sounding both amused and incredulous.

“Yes,” she says, laughing quietly. “Apart from that, he’s not my type.”

The silence stretches out. She comes to the conclusion that under the bed had been a long shot anyway, so she straightens up and stays on her knees, looking around the room once more.

“I suppose we’re not going to find it in here,” she says and stands up carefully, ignoring the ache in her shoulder.

They leave the room together, heading to the kitchen which is at the other end of the hallway. “They’re probably going to talk,” she tells him as she trails behind him—admiring his arse along the way. It’s very nice—pert, not too small and flat, eminently spankable.

“Nah,” he answers her, and she can hear the humour in his voice. “They all think you’re shagging Sherlock.”

She rolls her eyes and is on the verge of telling him how little that matters—some people just can’t stand a woman with a healthy, mature attitude towards sex—when she notices that the door to the loo moves slightly.

She automatically grabs onto his coat to tug him back and it’s a good thing she does, because in the next instant a man erupts from the loo, kitchen knife in hand, and slashes towards Lestrade’s gut. As it is, he hisses under his breath and doubles over. She doesn’t stop to worry about that before she’s acting on instinct, pushing him out of the way and getting between him and the suspect to take him on herself. To protect him.

Their suspect is slight and—she can tell from the way he holds himself—untrained; all it takes is a quick knee to the groin and then a hard, well-placed uppercut to the chin to have him unconscious on his back.

“Are you all right?” she asks Lestrade, a little out of breath as she kneels next to him to inspect the damage.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he answers. “Christ, that hurt,” he mutters to himself, his hands covering his stomach. If she weren’t a doctor, if she weren’t used to the sight, she might be completely hysterical from the amount of blood.

His shirt is slashed right through and there’s a shallow, jagged cut right above his belly button. It’s not too bad, really—definitely not as bad as it could have been or as bad as it looks—but she’s a bit irritated that she doesn’t have anything with her to treat the wound. And more than a little upset that he was injured at all.

“It’s not too bad, but keep pressure on it,” she orders him after inspecting it. “You’ll probably need a few stitches and it’ll be sore for a bit.”

“What happened here?” Donovan asks, clearly having been drawn to the hall by all the commotion.

“The suspect managed to hide from everyone and took a swipe at us,” she tells Donovan.

“Watson disarmed him,” Lestrade contributes, and she glances over at him. He has a peculiar look on his face, as if he’s simultaneously impressed, pained, and flustered.

“By yourself?” Donovan asks her, and she frankly just sounds impressed.

She shrugs, but Lestrade answers in the affirmative.

“This just confirms it, then.”

“What?” she asks, utterly confused.

“Your BAMF status,” Donovan answers, a smirk on her face.

“Bamf?” Now she’s just lost.

“A Bad-Ass Mother—”

“Donovan,” Lestrade interrupts, looking more flustered now. “Get that man out of here and see if you can’t get Jones or Hopkins to find out where he stashed the panties.”

“Yes, sir,” Donovan answers with a wry twist of her lip.

“And call the paramedics,” Jane adds, sending Lestrade—who looked about to protest—a quelling look. “I’d take care of it but…” she trails off, her lack of supplies clear to everyone.

Donovan nods and leaves the room, but Jane hardly sees her go because she’s focused on the man in front of her. He averted his eyes when he saw her stern look, and her heart flutters slightly in her chest. Some of it is adrenalin from dealing with the suspect, but quite a bit of it is down to Lestrade, who looks tired and worn down.

She can’t offer him what he needs—she won’t, because he has to come to her (as she constantly reminds herself)—but she smiles at him. “You’re not the prettiest I’ve rescued,” she says gently, teasingly.

“I’m not?” he asks, the exaggerated pout ruined by the way his eyes are squinting in pain.

“No, sorry. I think that honour has to go to Sherlock,” she says, a small smirk on her face.

“Think he’d like you calling him pretty?”

“Are you kidding? He’d probably preen like a peacock.”

Lestrade huffs a laugh and then winces.

“Sorry,” she says, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’ll try not to make you laugh by making fun of my flatmate. While we wait, I could entertain you with his lack of astronomical knowledge…”

He smiles up at her, and she’s struck again by how expressive his eyes are. He’s practically begging, and it would be delicious given the proper context. Right now, it’s almost driving her to distraction. “You’re going to make me laugh again, aren’t you?”

She smiles at him. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“I know a way,” he begins, and her heart beats a little faster because he may surprise her; he may be ready to ask her already.

Of course, the moment is ruined by the arrival of the paramedics and her mobile alerting her to a new text message.

**From: Sherlock  
Suspect at home. Evidence in slow cooker in oven.**

She rolls her eyes and can’t resist showing the message to Lestrade.

“Now he tells us,” he says, sounding exasperated. When she turns to look at him, she curses the paramedics and Sherlock yet again.

He’s propped against the wall, his shirt off, and his chest on full display. And it’s marvellous. He’s not overly toned or overly tanned, but he’s not flabby and pasty, either. There’s some lovely muscle definition—his pecs and stomach—and his nipples are a dusky colour. His chest isn’t very hairy, either; just a small strip from his collarbone to right above his stomach, and then another trail that starts beneath his bellybutton and disappears into his trousers.

She wants to lick his chest, suck on his nipples; she wants him writhing beneath her and she wants to put marks on his chest—nothing that will break the skin, but something that will stand out, something that will last for a little while, at least.

It’s so tempting to break her rules, to reach out and take him—and take care of him—like she’s certain they both want.

But she has rules for a reason and the time’s not right. She’ll wait until it is, hide in the weeds and blend in until the time comes to pounce.

**

They settle into a routine, from there—a holding pattern of flirting and near-misses. He greets her with ‘Watson’—which feels deliciously more intimate than ‘Doctor Watson’—and she gets a bit of a thrill by calling him ‘Lestrade’.

She doesn’t think they’re exactly obvious, but they’re not completely subtle, either; Sherlock knows, obviously, and contrives all sorts of reasons to send her over to NSY to talk with the man, ranging from important case-related information (“Lestrade texted, I need you to get everything he has on the Murphy case while I go speak to the bartender who saw her last”) to preposterous and see-through excuses (“Go over to NSY and see if they have any cases for me, even cold ones.”

“Why can’t you just text him?”

“My battery’s died.”

“That’s never stopped you using mine, before.”

“Your battery’s dead, too.”

“What— _Sherlock_!”

“It was an important experiment that I can’t expect you to understand. Off you go, and if you could stop off at Tesco’s on your way back, we’re out of honey. Also, I need you to pick up every sort of spice you can find while you’re at it.”)

She began to suspect that Donovan knew what was going on, too, but thankfully she’d not said anything or treated Jane any differently. They were friendly at crime scenes and it was nice to have another woman about to off-set the overwhelming stench of testosterone—especially when Anderson and Sherlock went at each other.

The flirting is...nice. Fun. And it relieves the tension that’s starting to build between them—a safety valve to avert a potentially catastrophic reaction.

*

The next time she sees him, he’s huddled near a brick wall with a cigarette in his hand.

“Smoking outside of a crime scene, Lestrade?” she tsks him teasingly.

“Don’t start, Watson,” he warns her with a small smile as he takes a puff from his fag.

“I thought you’d quit. Isn’t that what you told Sherlock?”

He laughs ruefully. “Fell off the wagon,” he continues, anticipating her next comment. “My ex has been pestering me for more money and DCI Gregson’s been a pain in my arse about the last case I brought Sherlock on.” He shrugs and stubs out the cigarette. “Something had to give.”

There are so many things she could say to this—about how it doesn’t _have_ to be the smoking habit, because she’s willing to engage in a very different sort of stress relief with him—but she confines herself to saying with a sly smile, “I was just going to say that if you’re so desperate to put something in your mouth, there are other, healthier, things.”

He laughs a surprised sort of laugh and shakes his head—but she notices a tell-tale flush on his cheek that even the relative darkness of the street can’t completely hide. It would be so easy to call him on it, but she suspects that he’s still not ready. She can be patient.

“Is that your expert opinion, Doctor?”

“Yes. I’m sure I could write you up a prescription for whatever you need.”

He hesitates, looking down at the ground for a moment, before looking up at her and locking eyes. “Watson,” he begins hesitantly, but before he can say much else, Donovan comes marching over to them.

“Scene’s clear, sir,” she tells him, and spares Jane a smile.

Lestrade shakes his head with a small chuckle that doesn’t sound at all humourous. “Right,” he says, “have Jones and Smith hold the perimeter. How are we doing with the interviews?”

“About thirty people have been interviewed and we have another eighteen or so. Not much to work with so far, though.”

“Keep at it,” he tells Donovan, who acknowledges the order by nodding and walking off. He turns to her. “You’d better go collect Sherlock from wherever he is and tell him to take a look.”

She sighs, but smiles fondly. “Yeah, okay.”

She’s turning to walk off when he calls to her. “Watson.”

“Yeah?” she asks, glancing at him over her shoulder.

He opens his mouth and hesitates, and then gives a minute shake of his head and smiles. “You up for the post-case pub crawl? First round’s on me.”

She grins at him. “Yes. And you’d better be prepared to buy me my usual this time. No trying to pass off that Jack Daniels shite you drink as the real thing.”

He groans theatrically at her. “Expensive date.”

“But worth it,” she replies and walks off without giving him the chance to contradict her.

Later, they end up at a nearby pub, joined by Donovan, Hopkins, Anderson, Jones and Williams. There’s a footie match on in the background and she’s sitting at the bar—one eye on the telly, the other on Lestrade, who’s seated next to her.

“A 16-year-old?” he asks her, and she gears herself up for him to take the piss. “Bit young for you, isn’t it?”

“I do prefer them older,” she says to him with a smile, “unlike you. What you’re doing ought to be illegal.”

He scoffs at her. “This is a perfectly good drink and it serves its purpose.”

“What? Of drinking as much as you can, as quickly as you can? Shouldn’t you have left those days behind as a young man?”

He grins. “I’m still a young man at heart.”

“Are you? What? You go out with your mates, get pissed, and indulge in some youthful indiscretions?”

“I _did_ say at heart. Nah, we go out, have a couple pints, play some football. I still wipe the pitch with them, as usual.”

She laughs. “That good, huh?”

“Oh yes. I’m the star striker on the CID’s football squad. I could have played professionally.”

“Now you’re just boasting. You never could have played football professionally,” she laughs at him in disbelief, taking a sip and feeling the pleasant burn down her sternum and in her stomach.

“God’s honest truth,” he tells her, a grin on his face.

She shakes her head. “No, no, I can’t picture it—”

“I’ll have you know,” he interrupts, the outraged tone of voice completely undercut by the boyish grin on his face, “that I could have played for Spurs.”

“‘Could have?’” she asks archly.

He shrugs and looks down at his drink for a moment, an embarrassed grin on his face. “I may have…been indisposed.”

“Indisposed? For a trial with a professional football team?”

“I had a rough night!” he exclaims, as if this makes up for it.

“Did you?” she smirks.

“Yes,” he says, but he’s grinning at her. “See, my mate Simon was getting married, so we took him out for his stag night—”

“Stellar planning, going out on the town the night before a big football trial.”

“We were twenty-one,” he says. “What does anyone know at twenty-one?”

“Fair enough.” She’s beginning to feel her drink—her face is warm and her brain feels slow. Her limbs are tingling and her head buzzing. She gestures expansively with her glass. “Continue.”

Thirty minutes later, she’s had to set her glass down to cover her mouth and attempt to contain her giggles and sniggers.

“…and that’s when Lilly—”

“Who’s Lilly?”

“The stripper. The one we picked up in Bolton.”

“You picked up a stripper in Bolton?”

“Yes, though her real name was Angela, her and Mark really hit it off. They’re still married, actually, last I heard from him. Anyway, she’s the one who realised we were in Blackpool.”

“She was able to tell that from the air?” Jane shakes her head. “She must have seen the tower.”

He nods, only a little sloppy from all the drinks he’s had. “The sun was starting to rise by that point and it was beginning to dawn on me—”

“That’s a terrible pun.”

“—Don’t interrupt me. It was beginning to dawn on me that I was not going to make the trial if I didn’t get out of the balloon and find a way to the train station. So we were able to land it on the beach—”

“Right on the beach?”

“Yeah. Near the Central Pier. Practically flew into the ferris wheel.”

“You’re making that up,” she declares through her laughs.

“No, seriously. So we landed the balloon and I hop out and make a mad dash for the train station. But I knew, already, that there was no way I was going to make it on time. I tried, of course, showed up. But they’d all packed it in and I missed my big chance.” He shakes his head with a small smile.

“Do you regret it?” she asks curiously.

“No,” he answers immediately, his eyes clear and fond. “I don’t think I’d have enjoyed it, when it comes to it. I much prefer what I do—helping people, solving crimes, seeing justice done.”

“I’ll drink to that,” she says, holding up her glass to him.

He grins at her and they touch glasses, each taking a sip. The mood is comfortable, friendly, but it’s slowly shifting into something else, something much more unfamiliar, dangerous. Electric.

She thinks he feels it, too—how can he not?—but before she thinks about what she might want to say, what she should say, Donovan turns up and stands next to them, Hopkins hovering behind her.

“I’m done for,” she tells them both. “We’re going to call it a night.” Hopkins nods in agreement. Jane desperately wants to snap at Donovan, or maybe glare; that’s the second time in one night that the mood’s been ruined by the other woman. But she knows it’s not really Donovan’s fault and there’s no sense in taking it out on her.

“Right, well, see you tomorrow,” Lestrade says with a smile and a nod over at Hopkins.

“Bye,” Jane says, forcing a pleasant smile.

She watches Donovan and Hopkins leave—holding hands, of course—and she turns back to Lestrade. A large yawn takes her completely by surprise, and when she’s done she smiles a bit sheepishly. “Guess I’m more tired than I thought.”

“It was a long day,” he agrees amicably, and he looks no better than her. There are large, dark bags under his eyes and he’s biting his lip like he’s fighting off his own yawn.

“I should probably…” she says, almost awkwardly, and indicates the door with her hand.

“Yeah, okay. You going to be all right getting home?”

“Are you? You drank more than I did.”

“I’m just around the corner.”

She smiles. “Good. Then I don’t have to worry about you.”

“Are doctors always this solicitous?” he asks with a smile as they leave the pub. The street isn’t very busy, but it’s not deserted either.

“Only with our favourite patients.”

“Remind me to never get on your bad side,” he says as she manages to finally hail a cab. 

The car comes to a stop in front of her and she opens the door. “Never get on my bad side,” she tells him, smiling sweetly.

He laughs and glances down for a moment before looking at her again. “Watson...” he hesitates and then smiles at her. “I’ll see you later.”

“See you,” she answers, disappointed but still smiling.

She can see him watching her as she climbs into the cab and starts to drive off, but she resolutely does not look back. She’s afraid she might do something silly if she does.

*

They stay in this space where they flirt and they almost say things to each other, but for all it’s frustrating and disheartening, it’s comfortable and fun, too. She finds herself respecting and liking him more and more until it becomes less about what they can do for each other sexually and what they can do for each other emotionally.

She begins to question the wisdom of her rule. Should she make the first move? Surely he knows that she would say yes if he asked her on a date or to spend the night? Maybe she hasn’t been obvious enough because, in her experience, men often need help working these things out.

But there’s something that holds her back—that holds him back, too—until the night when a madman straps her to a bomb and a pool in London is blown sky-high.

*

Everything that happens between Moriarty’s reappearance and finding herself sitting on the back of the ambulance, being checked out, is a blur.

Each moment as it is happening is crystal clear, but things happen so quickly that the overall impression is akin to a car flying by at top speed. All of the detail is lost from moment to moment, instant to instant, as though every molecule has been dispersed and remade itself within the span of a microsecond.

What mostly remains are the sensations; the flurry of her heart against her chest, the sweat sticking to her palms and under her arms, the tension in her muscles as she coiled, ready to jump. The sight of Sherlock’s face—pale, determined, steady—and Moriarty’s cold, dead eyes, and the creepy half-smile on his face as he dared Sherlock to pull the trigger.

There’s the click of the trigger and the deafening sound of the gun firing in the enclosed space—the echoes bouncing around confusingly—and then she remembers the yawning space where she expected a blast, heat, noise and there was instead the sound of laughter.

What she doesn’t remember is what Moriarty said next, not exactly (she’s sure that Sherlock remembers it word for word but she thinks she’s forgotten for a reason), but she does remember that he gave them less than a minute to get out of the blast radius of a bomb large enough to entirely level the pool.

The past and the present blur together in that moment of fear and terror when the bomb explodes and the force of the blast sends her face-first into the pavement. For a moment, she remembers the rough texture of dirt—not fine sand like in a desert, but coarse dirt with rocks and hardy scrub plants—and the ever-present heat. And overriding all of that had been the sudden, searing sensation of being shot.

Her shoulder burns as she remembers the muffled sounds of screaming—hers? Someone else’s?—and cries for help, the cracking of weapons and pinging of bullets. It had sounded far away and muted, drowned by the silence left in the wake of the explosion.

The memories overlay the present and she freezes, stuck in her own head. It’s terrifying, reliving that moment of vulnerability, prone in the dirt with rocks digging into her back and her shoulder on fire. 

But then someone is moving her, though she can’t really tell what’s happening—is it day? Night? She doesn’t remember being able to run before—and she’s being dragged, she’s falling, getting back up again to keep running. The world around her is silent—only not, because she can still hear the screaming from the desert (or can she?) and the awareness of hands grabbing at her, dragging her away from the heat.

Away from the past.

When she comes back to herself, the first thing she notices is the skin of her face stinging. One of the paramedics is putting antiseptic on some lacerations on her face.

Then, abruptly, the rest of her body _throbs_.

She groans and shakes her head in annoyance, wanting to get away from the feeling of the cold licks of fire on her face, away from the aching in every single part of her body—including her brain. She’s distantly aware that she’s in shock and subconsciously pulls the blanket that’s wrapped around her shoulders closer. 

“Jane?” Sherlock looms in front of her, face incredibly pale and eyes wider than she’s used to seeing them.

“Are you all right?” she asks automatically, and she finds herself slightly comforted when he rolls his eyes and relaxes.

“Obviously,” he says. “I would ask you the same, but you must be fine if you’re more concerned with my health, even though you’re the one who requires treatment. And a blanket.”

She glances down at the blanket in surprise and it startles a laugh out of her. It’s not hysterical, but it’s not the high-pitched giggle that she typically utters when she’s just escaped some dangerous situation with her mad flatmate. It’s both at once, and something else—she’s high on adrenalin, on surviving, and she’s still scared out of her mind by Moriarty (she knows he let them escape, that he escaped, too, and she can’t decide which is more unsettling). And there’s utter desperation and utter joy in her laugh.

Sherlock seems to understand, because he laughs with her—and they’re laughing together. Lucky to be alive (and they know it), happy to be alive, the utter insanity and intensity needing an outlet.

It’s almost unfortunate that Lestrade chooses this moment to walk up to them.

“Jane.”

She stops laughing in surprise because he has never—not once—called her by her first name. 

“Greg. Hi.”

He looks surprised momentarily—probably because she’s never called him by his first name, either—before he resumes the look he usually has at crime scenes and around Sherlock, which is one of supreme restrained patience in the face of inevitable frustration.

“I’ll need to get a statement from both of you about what happened tonight,” he tells them sternly, and she would almost believe things were back to normal if not for the tell-tale strain around his eyes and the way his fingers are twitching as if he needs a cigarette.

“I already gave you my statement,” Sherlock responds haughtily.

“No, you didn’t, actually. All you said was—”

“I remember what I said,” he interrupts, with an affronted look. His eyes are scanning the scene and seem to snag in the distance before an extreme moue of distaste and dislike flickers across his face. “If you _really_ need to know what happened, ask Jane.” And with nary a backward glance, they watch him walk purposefully towards a sleek black car that has pulled up to the scene.

Jane rubs her forehead, a headache coming on. The last thing she needs is to face Sherlock after he has a go at Mycroft.

“…be best if you came down to the station—”

“Hmm?” she asks, the sound of Lestrade’s voice pulling her attention away from where the Holmes brothers are facing off.

He turns around to see what she was looking at before turning back to her with a wry smile. “Looks like they’re gearing up for World War Three.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” she mutters, rubbing at her forehead.

“Listen…” he says, and then trails off. “Are you going to be all right?” he finally settles on.

She considers how best to answer that. Physically, she’s fine—apart from a minor concussion and some lacerations on her face; emotionally, maybe not quite up to snuff. It was a stressful night, to say the least, and as much as she loves Sherlock platonically, she’s not sure she can face him tonight.

“I don’t much fancy being in range of another explosion,” she finally says, nodding over towards Sherlock. She doesn’t even need to see his face to know that he’s glaring daggers at his brother.

Lestrade—Greg—shakes his head and chuckles softly, his fingers coming up to subconsciously rub at his lips.

And abruptly, she knows that her rule can hang. She wants him, he wants her, they’ve been dancing around it for far too long and, quite frankly, she got a refresher course in how short life is and the importance of seizing opportunities.

“You know,” she says musingly, “I have a bit of a concussion. I probably shouldn’t be left alone tonight.”

Greg raises an eyebrow at her. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” she answers, looking at him seriously. “And I can see from here that Sherlock won’t be in a position to check on me.”

Sure enough, Mycroft has managed to manipulate a no-doubt unwilling Sherlock into the car. She watches as Sherlock turns and looks at her once before the door is shut and the car begins to leave the scene.

“Well. I suppose I should…look after you.”

“I’d like that,” she says with a small smile and is gratified to see that Greg wastes no time informing Donovan that he needs to “take Watson to the station to get her statement and then take her home. So you can finish things up here, right?”

Donovan sends Jane a knowing look—which she can’t bring herself to be embarrassed by—and answers that of course she can look after the scene, and that naturally the Detective Inspector should interview the main witness. And see her safely home.

Jane wants to laugh at the pantomime nature of it all, but she’s instead focused on what comes next.

Sex.

It’s been awhile, actually; longer than she usually goes and longer than she would have liked. She’d dated Sam for a bit, but that hadn’t gone anywhere; she’d even gone on a blind date with a bloke named Matt, but they’d had no chemistry at all.

And before that…she had to go all the way back to her early days in Afghanistan when she propositioned one of the nurses—Billie Murray—after a particularly gruelling day of surgery. The sexual relationship hadn’t lasted, but the friendship had.

All in all, opportunities this promising had been rare and so she feels compelled to discuss what they’re about to do—the line they’re about to cross.

“That wasn’t exactly subtle, you know,” she says, breaking the silence that’s permeating Greg’s car.

“No,” he agrees amicably, sparing her a quick look before returning his eyes to the road. “But I don’t think it could have been, given the circumstances.”

She makes a noise of agreement.

Silence reigns for a little while as she ponders how best to open the frank part of the discussion. _Tell me everything_ , she wants to say—demand— _tell me everything that you’ve always been afraid to tell everyone else because it was too much. I won’t run. I’m not afraid. I’m the same, only not quite, more like the opposite side of your coin._

_Helping you helps me._

But she doesn’t say that at all because maybe that’s a bridge too far, just yet. And maybe the conversation about definitions is, too, but it seems the safer route—which is almost ironic. It’s expected, though, normal; the “your kink is my kink,” discussion, on the other hand...not so much.

Which is why she runs with the obvious gambit. “We’re really going to do this.”

She sees the side of his lip crook up in a wry smile. “No need to sound surprised. It’s felt a bit inevitable, if you ask me.”

“What I guess I mean is…what is this?”

“Well…this, as far as I know, is sex—“

“Obviously.”

“Yes, thank you Sherlock. Anyway, as I was going to say. Sex, preferably of the life-affirming variety, followed by sleep—”

“With you waking me up on occasion, since I do actually have a concussion.”

“You mean that wasn’t just a clever line to get me into bed?”

“It was hardly clever, as I mentioned, and if you’re that easy—”

“Okay, okay, yes, I walked into that one,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “And then after that…”

She watches him intently, finding herself curiously anxious to hear him finish that sentence.

“Well. One day at a time, yeah?”

She relaxes, unsure if she’s relieved or disappointed. “Yeah.”

He glances over at her once more and she feels her stomach churn in anticipation, at a different sort of excitement.

The tension in the car is thick and Jane keeps thinking how they can’t get back to his flat soon enough, how the moment they’re in the door she’s going to pin him against the wall and strip him down. How she’s going to push him into bed and straddle his hips and—

“Uh, Greg.”

“Mmm?”

“You do have condoms, don’t you?”

He scrunches his face up in thought, before it turns a bit red. “Erm, we may have to make a bit of a stop.”

*

By the time they arrive at his flat—after their unscheduled but very necessary stop—the intensity has been dialled back just a bit. Jane’s more inclined at the moment for slow and sultry rather than frantic and over much too quickly. Happily, Greg seems to be in the same mindset because he hangs his coat up carefully and turns to look at her.

She feels almost a bit silly, standing there with a box of condoms in her hand and staring at a man she’s about to shag, but the feeling passes quickly, and it’s replaced by a sense of tension and excitement.

It’s like her whole body is leaning forward, just waiting for a sign to move, to run her fingers through his hair, to nip at his lips and breathe the same air he’s breathing.

But before the moment can be drawn out too long—from anticipation to awkward—he steps forward, cups her chin with one hand and leans over her to kiss her.

It’s not demanding or hard or very insistent; it’s gentle and almost chaste, a kiss that allows them to feel each other out a bit, to explore. His lips are dry and slightly chapped, but still soft and appealing. It’s a bit of a tease, really; nice for the moment, but she can feel her desire building, fluttering warmly in her stomach.

They pull away from each other a moment later.

“Come on,” he says quietly and takes her hand, leading her into his bedroom.

What really strikes her first is the size. It’s small, but not cramped because there is very little in the way of decor, which is perfunctory at best. It puts her in mind of a hotel room, a place he doesn’t spend much time in, which serves its function as a place to sleep and nothing else. In many ways, the room is strikingly similar to the bedsit she occupied before moving into Baker Street, which just causes her to wonder about his non-work life; is it as lonely and empty as hers was before Sherlock?

This isn’t the time for maudlin thoughts, though, so she clutches onto the box in her hand and takes a closer look.

It isn’t neat, but it’s not too messy at the moment, either—it’s edging that way, though. She can see some of his clothes strewn about the room haphazardly, like he’d stripped them off and tossed them away, uncaring where they landed. There’s an empty glass on the nightstand—along with an alarm clock—and a remote for the telly. Otherwise, the room is generic and impersonal, as if anyone could live here.

There aren’t even any photographs, which makes her unaccountably sad.

 _Not the time, Jane,_ she reminds herself firmly.

“Sorry about the mess,” he says and makes a half-hearted effort to clear away some of the clothes that have landed at the foot of his bed.

She smiles at him—he really ought to know that a bit of mess won’t put her off; she lives with Sherlock, after all, who is infinitely messier and with far more questionable and/or disturbing items. But she decides not to comment, opting instead to sit on the bed and set the condoms down within easy reach on the nightstand.

“It’s fine,” she tells him honestly. The mattress is comfortable—firm without being too hard—and she enjoys the sight of him bending over to pick up a pair of socks.

He really does have a lovely arse, she thinks. Very spankable. And it’s nothing she hasn’t thought before, but there’s a real freedom in being able to stare and appreciate openly. She doesn’t even bother to glance away when he deposits the socks in his hamper and turns to look at her. The direction of her gaze and her thoughts must be written all over her face—even for regular people—because he raises an eyebrow at her.

Jane smiles unrepentantly at him. “You can’t be upset that I’m enjoying the view,” she says as he walks over to her. He takes hold of her hand and pulls her to stand in front of him, close enough for her to smell him. He smells masculine—earthy smells like sandalwood and leather—with a hint of smoke that they have in common since they were both in fairly close proximity to the fire.

The smell makes her heart race—it really has been far too long—and she nuzzles her nose into his neck, breathing deeply.

“I’d be more upset if you weren’t looking,” he says and she thinks he’s trying to be smooth, but his breath catches when her lips ghost over his skin. She chuckles—can’t help it, really—and he shivers enough that she can feel it, the slight movement of his body rubbing against hers.

The anticipation is delicious, of course, but she doesn’t want to wait; there’s a sense of urgency building in the back of her mind and she wants his hands all over her skin, wants his lips and tongue and fingers and cock on her and in her. And she wants it now.

So she pulls back and leans up into him, presses her lips against his more demandingly than last time. He’s quick; he gets that this is more intense, more intent, than their last kiss and responds in kind. His hands slide over her waist—still clothed, unfortunately—to the small of her back, and then inch down towards her arse while she runs her fingers firmly through his hair, nails scraping lightly at his scalp.

He moans quietly into the kiss and runs his tongue along her mouth, seeking entrance which she gladly grants him. Their tongues tangle and she relishes the heat of his mouth—his tongue—and presses closer, loving the feel of her breasts crushed against his chest. Her nipples are tingling, even still covered by her jumper and bra, and it’s suddenly much more urgent for her to be undressed _now_. After all, she can think of a better use for his hands than rubbing carefully at her hip bones.

Jane pulls away from him, licks her lips and loves the taste of him there—faint still, a hint of what’s to come—and starts pulling her jumper over her head. “Get undressed,” she tells him, a bit breathlessly.

He breathes in sharply and she manages to wrestle her jumper off to look at him curiously. He has an odd look on his face; his eyes are wide, his cheeks are a bit pink, and he’s staring off into the distance, looking almost preoccupied.

“Greg?” she asks cautiously. “All right?”

Greg blinks and shakes his head slightly, opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, but stops himself. 

“Are you all right with...” she trails off, unsure how to say what she wants to say. His look of confusion certainly doesn’t help matters. “That is...sometimes I like to...” she shakes her head and laughs. “I want you to tell me what you like,” she finally manages. 

It really wasn’t what she was going to say, but she worries that saying, _‘I’m going to tell you what you want and you’re going to enjoy it, I know you will, so just give yourself to me and I’ll help you, take care of you, keep you safe, I swear,’_ is the right thing to say at the moment.

She has to keep reminding herself that it’s too soon, that he’ll let her know when he’s ready.

He smiles crookedly at her. “Okay,” he says, as though he’s a bit bemused.

“It’s only fair,” she says, “since I plan to tell you exactly what I like.”

She’s immensely gratified to see his smile turn a bit heated and to watch his fingers fumble slightly with his button-down.

“I want you to lie down,” she tells him as she’s struggling with her jeans—she can’t get them off quickly enough—“on your back because I want to be on top.”

He exhales loudly—almost as though he’s been punched in the stomach—and starts removing his trousers.

She pauses to watch him, relishing the anticipation of seeing him in all of his glory.

And once he finally is naked and stretched out on his back, it _is_ glorious. The skin of his stomach and upper legs is paler than the rest of him—not a sickly colour, but an expanse that doesn’t often see the sun. His stomach isn’t flat, but it’s not flabby, either (perfect in her eyes, though). It looks inviting, the ideal place to run her hands, to lightly scrape her nails and watch red welts rise.

She wants to touch him now, so she hurriedly undresses and climbs onto the bed, looming over him on her hands and knees.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers quietly as she leans down to kiss him softly. She shivers as his hands slide up her sides, along her ribs and come to rest with his thumbs brushing against the underside of her breasts.

Jane smiles wryly at him and pushes herself onto her knees, straddling his muscular legs. His skin is so warm and it feels good where it brushes against the sensitive inner part of her thighs. She scoots closer so that his hands can still reach her. “You think so? Because I think it took you awhile to even notice me,” she says, teasingly.

Greg looks a bit abashed, but he moves his hands up to cup her breasts, his thumbs rubbing her nipples. She sighs and leans her head back slightly because it feels good and it’s been too long. “I always noticed,” he says quietly. “But I think you’ve gotten prettier since I’ve known you.”

“Harder,” she tells him and gasps when he complies immediately. Much better.

She glances down at him through half-shut eyes and sees him biting his lip, looking entranced, as if he can’t look away from her.

“Good,” she praises him and his hips jerk in response. It’s gratifying to know that she wasn’t wrong about him, but now is not the time. Still, she takes a page from her flatmate’s book and commits it to memory for later reference.

Jane rakes her nails down his chest and he hisses. “That all right?” she asks him, breathlessly.

“God yeah,” he tells her and his hips grind against her a bit. He’s hard—and God, she wants him inside her soon—and she can’t help grinding down in response.

She rakes her nails down his chest again—relishing his breathy sigh—and then grips one of his wrists and drags his hand down her body. “God, I need your fingers,” she tells him and he groans in response. “Thumb o-on my clit and then two fingers to stretch me. Nice and firm.”

“Christ,” he groans out as she releases his wrist and he cups his hand over her centre—just resting there for a moment, the heat of his hand a complete tease. She doesn’t want him to tease, though, and she doesn’t want touches she can hardly feel, so she takes hold of his wrist again and grinds down onto his palm, his fingertips just barely brushing against the edges of her opening.

“Come on,” she growls at him and he moans and hurries to follow her instructions. His thumb finds her clit and he presses and rubs firmly. Her hips jolt in response and she gasps. “God yes.”

“Like that?” he asks, sounding desperate and eager to please and it makes her heart thud in her chest.

“Yes,” she gasps again, moving her hips with his hand to get the maximum pleasure she can. She leans forward—conscious of neglecting him—and kisses him deeply, searchingly.

He groans into her mouth and she feels his hips buck in reaction underneath her. She pulls away, breathing heavily—even as worked up as he is, he’s a fantastic kisser—and nips at his ear. “Condom,” she gasps, and he gropes for the box with flattering haste.

Once he’s finally inside her, settled all the way in, she exhales slowly and enjoys the feeling of being filled. She’s always enjoyed this position, particularly, for this very moment—that moment of adjustment, of being so aware of someone else being inside of her, of a connection that is at once so small and so huge. The fact that she’s on top, that she can control pace and angle, that she can finally look down to see someone definitely helps.

She looks down at him; his face is flushed and he’s panting heavily and she thinks he’s holding himself back, holding still despite the tension in his arms and neck. _He wants to move_ , she thinks with a shiver, _and he’s waiting for me to tell him to_.

Jane threads her fingers through his silver hair, her nails lightly scraping his scalp. She feels his body shiver in response and she does, too, because of the way his lightly haired chest shifts against hers.

“Move,” she whispers in his ear.

“Fuck,” he moans and she feels his hands tighten on her hips. She feels him pull out a little and then thrust in and it feels so _good_ that she knows she won’t remain passive for long. For as undone as he is, though, he’s remarkably good at maintaining an even, smooth rhythm that she matches almost effortlessly. She’d expected syncing to him would be much more difficult and awkward—not just in this dance, but in all things—but she’s happy to be wrong. This is almost the easiest thing she’s ever done.

Almost, because for as wonderful as the feeling of him sliding in and out of her is, it’s too soft and gentle. She wants it firmer and harder. So she puts her hands on his shoulders and pulls herself into a sitting position so she can look at him.

He looks magnificent; his face is even redder than before and he’s sweating at his temples and hair line. His eyes are half-closed and he’s biting his lip as if to hold everything he’s thinking and feeling inside. Well, that simply won’t do.

“What do you want?” she asks him, reaching forward and gently tugging on his lip to pull it away from his teeth.

He groans when she twists her hips in a tight little circle at the end of a particularly deep thrust and forces him to stay there, grinding down and using her internal muscles to squeeze him. “Jane,” he gasps, “Christ. Just...anything.”

She slides a finger into his mouth and—when he sucks hungrily on it—she rewards him by thrusting down on him and twisting her hips again. He groans and holds tightly onto her hips, as though she’s his anchor in a storm.

Pulling her finger out, she rubs it over one of his nipples firmly, savouring his moan. “If you’re letting me decide, then I want it harder.” She pinches his nipple and loves the way his hips jerk in response. “I want to feel this—feel _you_ for days after this.” She moves her fingers over to his other nipple and pulls gently, his back arching in response. He’s moving around so much that it’s almost a challenge to stay where she is, but she likes that.

He’s so responsive and so willing to do what she wants that she’s more turned on than she can remember being in quite some time. “Fuck me so hard I won’t be able to walk straight,” she says.

“Christ,” he groans a bit weakly, but his answering thrust is powerful. Much better.

“Harder,” she commands, and gasps when he immediately thrusts harder and deeper. God, it feels amazing. “Yes, like that, just a little—” she cuts off, panting, as he hits her sweet spot dead on. “More, Greg,” she moans, her hands moving to again grip at his shoulders to give her the leverage she wants—needs, really. She feels the flesh give way under her nails as she holds on tight, still moving in time with his punishing thrusts into her.

“Almost, almost,” she chants under her breath, feeling that tingling, all-encompassing warmth spreading through her belly to her limbs. “Yes, fuck, yes,” she almost screams, frantically grinding down on him as the tingling explodes into white hot electricity.

When she comes back to herself a moment later, it’s to look down and see that Greg is motionless, staring up at her raptly. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs and pulls her closer, kissing her deeply as he begins to move again.

She’s aware enough to kiss back, to press kisses along his jaw and to lap at his earlobe and suck and bite further down his neck and along his collarbone. Mostly, though, she feels sated and loose-limbed, enough so that she doesn’t stop him when he rolls them over, looms over her and re-enters her to have better leverage.

Her legs come around him automatically and she meets his thrusts as best as she’s able. Best of all, though, this position puts his head near hers. “You’re so good,” she tells him in a throaty voice and he groans, speeding up his thrusts. “You’re amazing,” she says and sucks on his neck.

“Jane,” he gasps, sounding terribly needy and vulnerable and she knows she’ll remember the sound of his voice, saying her name that way, in her dreams and fantasies.

“Come on,” she breathes in his ear, nibbling on his earlobe. “Come, Greg.”

He groans one last time and she feels his body shudder against her, his hands twitching as they hold her close.

A few seconds later he sighs and pulls out of her, rolling off of her and leaning over the edge of the bed to dispose of the condom. She stretches next to him, relishing the glow and lack of tension that always sets in immediately after good sex.

Greg lies back next to her, and she’s cooled off enough that she scoots closer to him and snuggles a bit. “You don’t mind a bit of cuddling, do you?”

“No,” he says, his voice sounding warm and comforting—like a wool jumper and a roaring fire on a snowy day. His actions match his words as he reaches around her and pulls her close.

She hums drowsily and rests her head near his shoulder. “That was good.”

“Just good?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound offended. Rather, he sounds amused.

“Very good,” she amends with a small smile. It wouldn’t do to inflate his ego too much.

Jane yawns and presses a bit closer, enjoying his warmth. It’s so comfortable, in fact, that if he says anything else to her, she doesn’t hear it—dropping off to sleep almost instantly. Later, she feels it’s understandable; it had been a busy day, after all.

*

It’s not precisely a relationship, in the beginning. There’s shagging—like the next morning in the shower, when she gets on her knees and proceeds to blow his mind and then he returns the favour—and there’s joking at crime scenes, but they don’t go out, not really.

They try a few times. One time they make plans for dinner and a film. They make it through appetizers before Sherlock barges in and tells her that there’s been a murder—triple homicide, in fact—and that Dimmock has called him in to make sense of it all and would she please hurry?

She is forced to throw an apologetic look at Greg and trail in Sherlock’s wake because Sherlock can’t be trusted to play nice with the boys and girls of the Yard, especially Dimmock who—while respecting Sherlock professionally can’t stand him personally—and she’s forced to play liaison and mediator.

Greg smiles wryly at her and tells her they’ll try again some other time. She can’t help but love him just a bit for that.

She rewards him the next evening when she turns up at his flat unannounced with fruit, chocolate sauce and cool whip.

Then there’s the time when she absolutely forbids Sherlock from interrupting her on her and Greg’s date at the ice rink—a nice respite from the summer heat wave that’s baking the entire city.

And, remarkably, he leaves them alone.

Of course, more fool her for not excluding Mycroft. They’ve made it as far as the counter to pick up their skates when Jane’s phone trills and she picks it up precisely because it’s not Sherlock’s ringtone. The woman on the line—going by Calanthe today—informs her that Sherlock has been taken to hospital with burns on his face and hands and a nasty case of smoke inhalation.

The only conclusion—given that he’d been at his microscope when she’d left—is that he’d got bored and played with chemicals. She desperately wants to tell Mycroft’s PA to piss off, she’s on a date, but Sherlock’s been asking after her (apparently) and Greg just shakes his head with a small smile.

“I’ll take you there,” he tells her and how can she argue with that?

“I’ll make it up to you,” she promises when they pull up in front of the hospital.

“Like the last time?” he asks with a cheeky grin, which she proceeds to kiss.

“Better.”

After she’s done haranguing her flatmate—who not only doesn’t look sorry, but actually looks positively smug—and she’s binned his most recent acquisition from the morgue in retaliation, she goes back over to Greg’s with a box of condoms, some flavoured lube, and brand new lingerie.

If she does say so herself, it’s much better than the last time.

So the dating thing doesn’t really work that well at first. It’s only after a few months of shagging that Jane finds herself at Greg’s with a cold beer in her hand and a footie match on telly, bone tired from chasing after Sherlock for 30 hours, and realises that while she wants to stay, she doesn’t want to have sex.

Greg’s got his arm around her and his body feels solid and comforting—in fact, she could fall asleep right here and not care. It might be more cause for alarm or notice if she were awake enough to care; right now, sleeping is her primary goal.

“You want to go to the bedroom?” he asks her, stroking her hair; it feels marvellous and the instinct to stretch like a cat is difficult to fight.

“Only if it’s to sleep.”

“Really?”

“You sound surprised,” she replies, sitting up a bit to look him in the face.

He shrugs. “You’ve never wanted to stay just to sleep before,” he points out.

It’s true—she _knows_ it’s true—but she ignores that. “I do now.”

“Okay,” he says easily with a small smile.

When she climbs into bed and snuggles up to him, it feels so _right_ that she drops off to sleep almost immediately. It’s hard to deny the next morning that having someone hold her all night—having him hold her—is something she could get used to. It’s a bit of a startling revelation.

“Is this a relationship?” she asks him as he’s making them coffee.

She watches him intently as he calmly finishes what he’s doing and turns to face her, handing her a cup in the process.

“I suppose,” he says thoughtfully. “Is that what you want?”

Jane appreciates his calmness and stability; she likes shagging him and loves waking up with him. She enjoys his company and she’s not bored having a night in.

“Yes, I think I do. And you?” she asks, curiously not nervous about his answer because she knows that even if it’s not what he wants, they can continue what they’ve been doing and it’ll be fine.

“Yeah,” he answers, almost immediately, and she smiles at him.

“Come here,” she tells him, and—as always—feels a tiny thrill in her stomach and down her spine when he jumps to do what she says.

She doesn’t have to tell him this bit, though, he knows it already; he wraps his arms around her and leans down to kiss her deeply—God, but she loves the way he kisses, deep and firm, not too wet. His hands slide over her waist and hips and she cards her fingers through his hair—one of her favourite parts, though nearly every bit of him is her favourite.

Jane pulls away from him a moment later and grins. “How do you feel about spanking?”

Greg shivers and gulps and she’s not fooled in the slightest when he tries to play it nonchalant. “It’s okay,” he says, but she’s paying more attention to the way he’s pressing against her. And she obliges him by pulling him into the bedroom.

It’s completely brilliant, of course; and, she thinks, a very good sign.

*

After that, it’s different. They do dinner, a film, and a cuddle on the sofa; he’ll take her out to see the latest show in some out-of-the-way theatre or the newest exhibit at the National Gallery. Often, they go down the pub to watch the footie or play a pub quiz. One memorable time, they go to a karaoke bar and sing the most god-awful, cheesy love song they can find, just to butcher it. They go on dates—real, proper dates—and they don’t always shag.

But when they do, it’s brilliant—even more than the first time—and they branch out, try new things.

A couple of weeks after she stays with him overnight just to sleep, she turns up at Greg’s with a pair of handcuffs.

“I thought we might try something new,” she tells him, showing him the handcuffs. It’s been a hell of a day and Sherlock’s been sitting on her last nerve for most of it. She needs to work out some aggression and she really, really hopes that Greg will let her.

“Rough day?” he asks her.

“Ugh, you have _no_ idea,” she seethes, and proceeds to regale him with the gory details—which, on the whole, revolve around Sherlock being bored, some idiot allowing him access to a dead skunk, and an incredibly foul and persistent odour in their flat.

It’s a wonder that Greg allows her to vent—to get all of her irritation and frustration out—with such a calm demeanour. He asks the right questions and he stays supportive while also being reasonable, and when he promises to find something to keep Sherlock occupied when he goes to work, she can’t help but jump him out of gratitude and the sense that he’s particularly attractive when he’s doing something nice for her.

The handcuffs are forgotten, though there is a bit of incidental spanking. It’s brilliant, but then it’s always brilliant when they come together.

*

On the whole, she’s never been happier or more content. She gets her fill of danger with her brilliant flatmate and best friend, but when she needs time away, she has Greg and the stability he represents.

Stability is not the same thing as boring, and Greg is not boring—in bed or out of it. He’s not afraid to try something different—the handcuffs and the spanking, as examples, but there’s also the time when she looks at him bending over to put a DVD in and she asks, “Have you ever tried pegging?”

The look she’d received when she’d explained had been promising and—a few days later, after they’d tried it—the whole exercise had been deemed a success. They try other things, too—role play, sensory deprivation, orgasm denial—and some things work and others don’t. She’s never bored and it’s almost perfect.

Because despite everything they try, there’s one place they don’t go. And it’s fine most of the time—really, almost all of the time—but there are days when the itch is there, a teasing flicker of need where she can’t quite reach. It’s a bit maddening, because she knows—or thinks she knows—that he feels it, too. But for some reason that she is unable to fathom, he doesn’t trust her with this part of himself.

Jane tries to tell herself it doesn’t bother her, but on the days that really try her—the times when Sherlock is in one of his black moods and shooting up the walls (or worse); the times when her money is tight and the surgery is cutting her hours; the times when her leg aches and her shoulder burns, when she longs to block out the rest of the world and focus on the details, on the things that she can wrap in her hand and her heart and protect. At those times, she wishes—more than anything—that he’d trust her, that he’d place himself completely in her hands because she knows she can care for him, that—in caring for him—she’d be caring for herself.

But those times are few and far between. For the most part, life is almost perfect.

Until the day Sherlock pursues his new arch-nemesis to the top of a building alone, ridding the world of Moriarty once and for all.

And, in the process, tumbling off the building and onto the pavement below.

**

Jane stares at her mobile, willing time to rewind and for Mycroft to take back the horrible words, words that are like a punch in the solar plexus, words that leave her gasping and shaking where she sits.

It can’t be true, she thinks wildly. It just can’t. The hero always survives in the end, always lives happily ever after and—despite everything—she thinks that Sherlock is a hero. He crossed the Rubicon at the pool.

So he can’t be dead, because it’s against all of the rules.

She suddenly feels an arm around her, feels a body next to her, and her chest heaves—when did she stop breathing?

_I’m sorry, Doctor Watson, but Sherlock..._

“Jane!”

She blinks and looks up at Greg—dear God, it’s so nice that he’s here, that he’s holding her, because she thinks she’d spiral off into nothingness without him as an anchor.

“What’s happened?” he asks, sounding concerned.

She doesn’t know how to put it into words, how to take the concept of Sherlock—so huge, so vibrant, so full of life—and the concept of death, which is even bigger and more all-encompassing than Sherlock, and cold and empty and _gone_ , and put them together in a way that makes sense.

It’s impossible, she knows, so she looks at him.

“It’s to do with Sherlock, isn’t it?” he asks her, but it almost sounds like more of a statement.

Jane opens her mouth to say the words, strives fom Mycroft’s damnable equanimity— _Sherlock followed Moriarty up to the top of the Reichenbach Building, and they both fell. My team is still looking into the exact sequence of events..._ —but she can’t. Her mind and heart are in agony, and she can’t help the thoughts sneaking in, the ones that insist she could have done something, that if she’d been there this wouldn’t have happened.

Greg pulls her close and wipes her face and she’s surprised at the tears obscuring her vision. She didn’t even notice.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly into her hair, kissing the top of her head. All she can feel beyond the pain of loss is how grateful she is that he understands without her having to vocalise it. She’d be lost if she had to put it into words, if she had to explain.

That would make it real and she still wants, desperately, for it to be a nightmare from which she can wake.

*

The funeral is five days later and the sharp stinging agony has given way to a dull throbbing in every bit of her body. It’s even worse because of what Sherlock’s death means in practical terms; she has to find somewhere new to live—Baker Street holds too many ghosts and even if it didn’t, she can’t afford to live there alone, no matter how understanding Mrs Hudson is prepared to be.

The funeral helps some; hearing the eulogy, seeing the coffin lowered into the ground—closed casket, thank God—looking at all of the people who turned out...it helps, a little. It’s like trying to close a door on gale force winds, but she’s managed to put enough of it aside to stay composed, even if she can’t speak herself. She wishes she could, but it’s too hard, too raw.

It would have been infinitely worse without Greg at her side, his comforting presence a barrier between her and everyone else and their pitying looks, and their pitying whispers.

She’s still not in control, though—in fact, feels more out of control than ever—and she wants them all to go away and leave her alone. Even Mycroft, who approaches her later—discreet and dapper as ever—and informs her in his roundabout way that she can stay in Baker Street if she so chooses.

He doesn’t seem to understand the power of Sherlock’s ghost, how the flat is permeated in everything he was and did and how simply being there reopens the wounds.

Jane finally gives up trying to explain it and simply waits for him to leave her in peace; eventually he gets the message and nods his head to her as he leaves.

Almost immediately, she seeks out Greg. “Time to go?” he asks her and she nods, thankful that he understands.

He always understands her—well, almost always—and she’s grateful that he has offered her a place to stay without the expectation that she’ll remain there.

No obligation, nothing binding her and holding her down if she doesn’t want it.

But she’s thought for some time now that she does want it, that she wants him bound to her, that she wants obligations and commitment; she’s so used to having responsibilities to others that she doesn’t like to think what her life would be like without them.

Having a duty, having a purpose, is what she needs now, and perhaps that’s why—when they reach his place and take off their mourning clothes—he holds her close and says quietly, “I want to give myself to you.”

Jane stills and looks at the ground but doesn’t move away.

“I think you know what I mean,” he adds, stroking her hair gently.

“Why now?” she asks after a long moment of silence.

He hums thoughtfully and strokes her hair; she can’t raise her head to look at him, not yet, so she keeps staring at the floor.

“You need it,” he says, his insight into her needs and wants breathtaking; she loves that it’s so simple for him to say, but she has to wonder why he never brought it up before. “I need it,” he adds, sounding subdued.

She raises her face to finally look at him and he looks as worn down, as raw and wounded as she feels. There are dark circles under his eyes and she can easily see the lines in his face that are always deeper when he’s stressed.

“That didn’t answer my question.”

He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, looking reluctant. “I don’t usually ask for this in a relationship,” he says finally. “Most people don’t understand.”

Jane feels a shiver down her spine at the thought that, already, she’s not _most people_. She could have told him that ages ago, but she’s glad he got there in the end. Shrugging in non-verbal agreement, she lays her head back on his shoulder. “Bad experience?” she hazards because, for all of her care, she’s had one or two before. It’s what’s made her so cautious in the first place.

He breathes out heavily and leans his head on hers. “Yeah. A few.”

He doesn’t elaborate and she doesn’t press—there’s time enough for that later. Instead, she relishes the feeling of him leaning against her for a bit before pulling away completely to look at him. “Are you sure?”

His eyes focus on hers and he nods, a small wry smiling playing about his lips. “Yeah.”

“You trust me?” she presses. She has to know this, he has to say—

“Yes,” he answers simply, looking at her seriously. And she believes him.

“Okay,” she answers and the anticipation begins to build under her skin, the itching she’s been dying to scratch. It pushes back the pain, the fear, the entire world; all that matters right now is him and her.

“Safeword?”

He gets a peculiar look on his face, almost as if he wants to laugh and cry at the same time. “Pluto,” he answers and she stares at him.

Pluto: Greek God of the Dead, former planet in the solar system. A cartoon dog. And it makes her think of... _him_ , her lost best friend, who didn’t know that the Earth circled the Sun, who thought the Solar System in general—and, one presumes, all of its planets and orbiting bodies—was useless information.

She’s never been much of a believer—even if she had been, Afghanistan would have done a number on it—but she likes to think that some part of Sherlock is out there now, exploring the stars and the galaxies and maybe finding that they’re not boring. She wants to believe that some part of him—his essence, maybe—still exists somewhere in the universe.

“Jane,” Greg says gently, bringing her back to the here and now. She looks him in the eyes and he has that look again and he must be thinking nearly the same thoughts. “I know,” he says and almost laughs. “After you wrote that blog entry...it seemed the perfect thing.”

She laughs despite herself—it feels old and rusty, more like a cackle than a laugh—and it hurts a bit, too, the same way it hurts to put a dislocated shoulder back in place. She knows that the pain will linger, but the promise of comfort, of caring for someone else, of having a life in her hands that she can protect and nurture and love...it takes some of the sting and raw agony of his loss away. It’s a start.

“Are you ready?” she asks, taking his hand and lacing her fingers with his.

He nods, locking eyes with her. “When you are.”

Those words echo back to her from the past...

_“Got your breath back?”_

_“Ready when you are.”_

But it doesn’t hurt as much as before. It will always throb, will always be a wound she’ll have to bear—like her shoulder, like her leg—but someday it will be manageable. And the healing, the scarring, will start now.

Wordlessly, she stands and tugs gently at his hand, gratified when he gets up without hesitation, without struggle or even a flinch, and follows her into the bedroom.

**

“Undress and kneel,” she says to him in a no-nonsense tone.

She stays standing at the door, watching him obey her immediately, and admiring him and his body as he does it.

She’s seen his body often by now, in all sorts of different times and places—with different lighting and in different states of dress—but he’s never looked quite so glorious to her eyes. His lightly furred chest and legs are nicely defined, his stomach is lean, and she longs to twist and tweak his brown nipples. She wants him, wants to possess and protect him, and she can already feel pleasure and anticipation tingling throughout her body.

It’s been far too long since she’s had someone to do this with, to do this _for_. Her mind is clearing, the grief and pain pushed to the edges—still there, hovering, but muted and distant for now—and she marvels at the moment, lives in it and relishes it.

Soon, very soon, he’s completely naked and kneeling on the floor, facing her. She takes in the lines of his shoulders—still far too tense—and walks over to him.

“You will address me as ‘Mistress’ and you will answer any question I put to you without hesitation,” she tells him, a slow burn in her stomach when he nods promptly.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Very good,” she praises him and delights in the shiver that leaves goosebumps along his skin. “I expect you to listen and obey me without question or hesitation.” She pauses and runs her fingers through his hair. “I want you to trust me completely. Do you?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

In her mind, she promises herself and him that she will faithfully care for him, protect him, love him the way he needs.

“Very well.” She moves away from him and stands in the centre of the room. Normally she’d have toys to play with or an outfit to wear, but none of those things are here, yet. Most of them are sitting in a box at Baker Street. It’s just as well, though, that their first time will be without those accoutrements. It will be just her and him—nothing to remove either of them from the situation, to make it more like playing a role, because that’s not what this is and it’s not the point. It’s about loss and rediscovery, it’s about life and love, and it’s about taking the first steps on a long journey. One they’ll take together.

“Come here,” she commands.

And he’s already so good at this because he knows what she wants, that she wants him to remain on his knees with his eyes lowered. His cheeks are slightly pink and he makes a delectable, delightful picture.

He comes to a stop in front of her, waiting, and she watches him for a moment. It seems to stretch, taut as a string ready to snap, and she relishes that, too. The moment before they both fall, before they cross over into what they both want and need.

“Undress me,” she orders.

They’ve been together long enough that he knows exactly what she likes. His hands come up to slide her pyjama bottoms down a bit and he places soft kisses along her belly. She sighs, the feeling of it relaxing and lovely, and runs her fingers through his hair in encouragement.

His hands grip at the fabric of her pyjama bottoms and he pulls slowly, kissing at newly revealed skin, licking and nipping. It’s lovely, and she’ll indulge his initiative for now because she knows he hasn’t fully let go and surrendered yet. These things take time and it wouldn’t do to overreact.

She does, however, tug firmly at his hair and delights in the fact that he instantly knows what she means—get on with it—because he pulls away enough to pull her bottoms the rest of the way to the floor and helps steady her while she removes her feet.

“Put them in the laundry basket.”

He does, remaining on his knees with his head down and he’s so lovely like this—his shoulders relaxing, his arms moving more fluidly and gracefully at his side. He moves back over to her and she smiles down at him.

“Very good,” Jane praises, idly tracing his cheek with her fingertip, running along the cheekbone and then back up, and then back down his jaw until she reaches his chin. He’s shivering, his eyelashes fluttering, and he’s simply breathtaking.

 _Give me more,_ she thinks, and runs her finger along his lips. _Give me everything_.

His tongue darts out to touch her fingertip and she shivers a bit, liking the feel of it.

Jane pulls away, though, and sits on the bed, legs crossed at the ankles and looks at him critically. “Come here, Greg. Hands and knees this time.”

He bends over at the waist and puts his hands flat to the floor, his head parallel with the rest of his body, his smooth back on display and curving enticingly towards his arse. He moves towards her, crawling, and she can’t tear her eyes away from the top of his bum, which is just barely visible from this angle and such a fucking tease.

Greg stops in front of her, still on his hands and knees, and she wants him closer. “Kneel up. I want your mouth.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he murmurs and kneels up, leaning in close to rub his nose and lips against her, the thin fabric of her knickers a barrier between them.

She likes the friction, though, the way the heat and his exhales is filtered in delightful ways by the cotton, so she doesn’t order him to take them off yet. There’s no need to rush, after all, and she plans on relishing this.

His hands come up to grasp at her hips, needing something to keep him balanced while he presses closer, the teasing tip of his tongue suddenly maddening because it’s not enough. She suspects he’s trying to get a rise out of her, to escalate this encounter from a slow, languid pace to one more frantic and frenzied.

Well, they can’t have that.

She buries her fingers in his hair and scrapes her nails roughly against scalp, enjoying his muffled moan. Jane then grips his hair and tugs his head back firmly. His eyes are half-lidded and shining, and his lips are parted slightly, teasingly. All in all, he looks utterly delicious and entirely too aware of his surroundings.

“Not enough for you, hmm?” she asks him lightly, tugging a bit on his hair, loving the way his eyes flutter and his tongue darts out to lick at the corner of his lips. “You need more?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he responds, raising his eyes to look at her, a hint of pleading. God, but she loves the contrast between Lestrade, the detective inspector who always looks so self-contained and completely in control of himself, with Greg as he is now—flushed, painting, needy, and slowly but surely losing control of himself. All because of her.

“I’ve indulged you,” she says, a bit sternly, and doesn’t miss the shudder that goes through his frame. “Given you a little leeway to start with and you’ve thought to take advantage.”

His eyes widen and he shakes his head as much as he’s able, given that she still has a firm grip on his hair. “No, Mistress—”

“I think a little correction is in order,” she interrupts, speaking over him. His breathing has sped up and his cheeks are looking even redder. So beautiful. “Stand up,” she says and releases his hair. “Hands flat on the mattress.”

The haste with which he complies is flattering and Jane allows herself a small smile. He’s so eager—he’s giving himself over to the feeling, to _her_ —and she will reward him. Eventually.

For now, though, she drinks in the sight of his hands flat on the mattress, the way he has to lean over—emphasizing his arse—and the almost coy way he turns his head to look at her.

He looks amazing posed that way, but she wants to see more of his arse. “Nose to the mattress, too,” she orders and watches him comply. In this position, he’s forced to spread his legs and tilt his hips up.

God, it’s perfect.

She moves over to him and places a hand over his arse—gently, possessively—and rubs a bit. He sighs into the mattress and squirms in pleasure, despite knowing what’s to come. “You haven’t cleaned yourself recently, have you?” she asks idly, dipping her finger teasingly into the crease between his arse cheeks.

He shudders and tenses—not in fear, but in a burst of unexpected adrenalin; she’s sure she doesn’t imagine the disappointment in his voice when he answers, “No, Mistress.”

“Pity. I would have liked to have opened you up with my tongue. Perhaps you’ll be better prepared next time,” she scolds him and his shivers and breathy moan are intoxicating.

“Yes, Mistress, I promise,” he says, a hint of pleading in his tone. He wants it; it’s one of the discoveries they’d made over the months of their relationship. He’s so sensitive and she knows his body and is more than capable of finding his buttons--literally and figuratively.

“At the moment,” she says in her best soldier voice, “I think you need a little reminder of why it’s important to obey orders.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he replies, his breath hitching slightly in between the words.

Jane moves away from him for a moment and repositions herself to his right side so that her dominant left hand is free. She rests it on his lovely arse and rubs slightly. “You’ve not done much to warrant punishment,” she says gently but firmly, “so I’ll go a bit easy on you, just ten to start with. I want you to count them out for me. If you miss one, we’ll start over.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he breathes out and she sees the way his hands clench in the sheets. He’s preparing himself and she’s quite all right with that; she’s not sadistic and this is a minor correction.

After a moment, he lies still, his shoulder muscles bunched in anticipation, so she rests the flat of her hand against his bum. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t give him a verbal cue--the nonverbal one ought to be enough--and then she pulls her hand back, counts to three in her head, and then brings it forward sharply, savouring the solid impact against his warm flesh and the way he says “One.”

After the first couple of strokes, though, it becomes apparent that she’s going much too easy on him--his voice is calm and without strain--and the next few are more forceful, startling him enough that he almost forgets to count.

But he’s so good, and so eager, that he remembers and she can’t help but feel some pride in him. It doesn’t stop her from continuing to punish him, however, and she’s more interested in the way that his calm is breaking--by the eighth stroke, his voice is strained and pleading, his muscles taut.

She spanks him again, hard, and the force of it makes him cry out--just briefly, before he reasserts some measure of control over himself--and she thinks _Yes, like that_ , and does it again.

After the tenth one, she’s breathing hard, from exertion and arousal, and the tautness in his muscles releases itself at once, his fists clenched into the bedspread the only thing keeping him in position.

“What do you say?”

There is a long pause before he answers, quietly and sounding both broken and grateful, “Thank you, Mistress.”

“You’ve learned your lesson, haven’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he answers, voice muffled in the bedspread.

“You did very well,” she praises him, running her fingers along his spine and delighting in his shivers. “I’m very proud of you.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” he says again, more strongly and with an unmistakable tone of adoration. She breathes out hard--that voice just _does things_ to her--and she removes her knickers. God, she wants his mouth on her right now.

“Stand up and kneel.”

He tries to move quickly, but his limbs have gone somewhat uncoordinated. “Careful,” she gently admonishes him, snaking an arm around his waist briefly, until he regains his balance.

He looks at her--his eyes soft and unfocused, the lines of his face less pronounced--and she can’t help but smile at him encouragingly. He’s always attractive to her, but there’s something about this--how soft and vulnerable and out of control he is--that makes her choke up, that makes her chest feel tight in a good way, and gives her the feeling that she could fly.

“Gorgeous,” she tells him as he settles himself on his knees on the side of the bed. She sits in front of him and reaches out to stroke his hair. “You’re so gorgeous, love,” she tells him and loves the way he closes his eyes and leans into her hand--running purely on instinct, not weighed down with worry and sorrow. It’s temporary, she knows--for both of them, certainly--but she’s not thinking about that right now.

He doesn’t respond, but she didn’t expect him to. “You have a beautiful mouth,” she tells him and he smiles softly at her, eyes still closed. “Would you like to show me what you can do with it?” she asks. “Properly, this time?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he answers happily and uses his hands to carefully spread her legs before leaning in--slowly, reverently, as if to worship her--and presses his nose and mouth to her, breathing her in deeply.

She shudders and gasps--feels so good--and scratches lightly at his scalp, a wordless order to continue.

He licks her--teasing, gentle licks, like a cat lapping at milk--and it’s so light it’s almost maddening.

“More,” she says, encouragingly, and he immediately obeys, taking longer, firmer licks, his tongue teasing her cunt. His nose nuzzles against her clit, and she groans quietly. “Very good,” she tells him a bit breathlessly; her heart rate is speeding up and pleasure is sparking in her stomach and through her limbs.

He shifts on his knees and hums quietly under his breath, the vibration ratcheting up her pleasure, causing her to spread her legs a bit wider and wordlessly encouraging him to keep going, to give her more.

They’ve been together enough by now that he doesn’t need to be told; he can read the signs for himself. He brings a hand up, rubs his thumb along her clit--the sensation is fantastic, brilliant--and thrusts his tongue inside of her.

God, it feels amazing and she can’t help bucking her hips towards his mouth, urging him on; he’s so good, and he gives her more--his tongue thrusting faster, more forcefully, his fingers joining in as he rubs at her clit harder--before he suddenly moves, his mouth coming to close over her clit and two fingers thrusting deeply into her.

She clutches at his hair and comes quickly, hard--sees sparks in front of her eyes and hears the blood pounding through her body.

“Greg,” she pants, running her fingers through his hair and tugging a bit so that he’ll move away and look up at her.

He does, his lips swollen and red, his cheeks flushed and his cheeks pink. He looks utterly debauched, which may be the sexiest thing she’s ever seen.

“You did so well,” she says, stroking through his hair as she catches her breath.

“Thank you, Mistress.”

“Come up here,” she orders him, gently, and helps him crawl up onto the bed and arranges him so that he’s lying on the bed. He looks more composed than she’d like, but she can also tell--by the soft, hazy look in his eyes--that he’s completely free of worry, that he’s entirely focused on the present.

“I think you deserve a little reward,” she tells him and leans over to kiss and lick at his stomach. Some of her previous partners wanted more interaction, wanted the chance to say what they wanted, but she knows that Greg’s not like that. He had so much trouble talking about wanting this in the first place, and he’s so content to please her and be protected and cared for, that he doesn’t even want the illusion of choice. He’s happier letting her do what she wants, and so she doesn’t ask.

Instead, she kisses down to his cock--flushed, fully hard, dripping a bit of precome--and takes it into her mouth.

Greg moans and moves restlessly on the bed--he hasn’t been given permission to thrust his hips--fisting the sheets and tossing his head from side to side. Jane loves how responsive he is, so easy to read--another reason she doesn’t need to ask what he wants--and, in reward, takes him deeper into her throat, sucking on him gently, one of her hands coming up to cup his balls, rolling them carefully in the way that he loves.

He’s being too quiet, though--which means that her lesson took, since she didn’t give him permission to beg--so she pulls away and wraps her hand around his cock, stroking him teasingly--not enough pressure to be truly pleasurable.

“You may beg,” she tells him, and immediately he does.

“Please, Mistress,” he says, already looking less composed and gloriously needy.

“You want to come,” she almost asks--though it’s not really a question because it’s obvious that he wants to, that he _needs_ to.

“Yes, Mistress,” he gasps, and he’s slowly losing complete control, giving in with utter abandon to his pleasure. He can’t restrain himself from writhing on the bed, from thrusting his hips into her hand for more friction--for harder, faster, _more_.

“You’ve been so good for me,” she tells him and pulls her hand away, loving the fact that he’s so far gone he doesn’t hold in his groan of displeasure.

“Please,” he begs and she smiles at him.

“Shh,” she whispers, leaning close and kissing him lightly on the lips.

He quiets a bit, still panting and beautifully flushed, his muscles twitching randomly. He’s glorious and beautiful and hers and--even though she’s already come--she feels her nipples harden and a tingling in her stomach. She wants to come again, with him inside of her.

Jane repositions herself to straddle his hips, delighting in the feel of him between her thighs--indulging herself for a minute and squeezing them, loving his warm body under her. “Put your hands on my hips,” she tells him and reaches down to take hold of his prick--which is rock solid and leaking steadily now.

She takes a moment to marvel at how far they’ve come--this is only the third time they’ve done this without a condom--and while the first time was momentous, this feels like a huge step for them. There will be no barriers between them, after this; not just physical ones, but emotional ones, too. He trusts her--enough to give himself over to her completely--and she wants to deserve that trust and that reward.

Always.

“Are you ready, love?” she asks him, sinking enough to feel the blunt head of his cock against her entrance.

He looks into her eyes. “Yes, Mistress.”

And she can see that he is, everything he’s feeling, experiencing, laid bare in that gaze--his desire for her, his trust and vulnerability--everything. No sense in drawing it out for either of them, then.

She sinks carefully onto his cock--adjusting her hips this way and that as she goes to find the perfect angle--and sighs blissfully when he’s completely inside of her, filling her up. Jane clenches around him, squeezes her internal muscles to really _feel_ him--he’s big enough that she needs a moment to adjust--before she takes a deep breath. “Move.”

He stares at her in awe, his eyes unfocused but adoring, and then his hands grip tighter on her waist and he thrusts up firmly, smoothly.

“Yes,” she gasps, arching a bit--partly a show, partly honest ecstasy at the feeling of him so deep inside her. “More,” she orders him. “Harder.”

And he does, thrusting forcefully up into her--hard enough that she’ll feel it later, be sore and tender--but she loves it that way. They won’t last long--she knows it, can see in the way he squeezes his eyes shut and grips her hips tighter--and she wants them to come together, so she reaches down to where they’re joined together and rubs herself hard in time to his thrusts.

God, it feels amazing, the way he’s fucking her--so forceful and desperate to come--but he hasn’t yet, because he knows how this works. Jane has to give him permission.

She’s so close and she opens her eyes--when did they close?--to take in the sight of him; he’s desperate, his hair completely mussed, his face red and his head thrashing back and forth. His feet are planted on the bed to give him better leverage and he’s gripping her hips so hard that she’ll have bruises.

“Please,” he begs her, nearly incoherent. “Please please _please_!”

There aren’t words to describe how she feels, except close. “Come,” she says--gasps, pants, moans--”come right now.”

And, with a deep, heartfelt groan, he does; one, two, three last thrusts before he completely stills--buried to the hilt inside of her--and arches as he reaches his peak.

She gasps at the sensation, at the pleasure, and follows just behind him. With her remaining energy--and ability to think coherently--she manages to lean forward and rest her head on his shoulder, her body pleasantly boneless and exhausted.

**

“What made you finally tell me?” she asks him, once they’ve cleaned themselves up and are resting against each other.

He’s quiet for a moment before he finally answers. “Your face.”

“My face?” she asks blankly, tilting her head back to look at him.

“You had this look, when Sherlock’s brother came over to talk to you. Not sure I can explain it, but you looked like...you looked like the whole world was resting on your shoulders. You looked alone.”

She buries her face in his neck, because those feelings are still there, held at bay by the quiet peace in the room and the lassitude suffusing her body. Except that she doesn’t feel alone, at least; having Greg there--not only to take care of, but to be taken care of by--has eased those feelings and made everything she felt in the wake of Sherlock’s death more bearable.

But how can she say those words? She’s never been particularly good with giving voice to her innermost thoughts and feelings--no one in her family is--so she snuggles up closer to him and hopes that it conveys everything she means to say, probably more eloquently than she could ever put in words.

They lie together quietly for long minutes--not awkward or uncomfortable--before she speaks up once again. “Yes, but how did you know that I needed this?”

Greg sighs. “Well...Sherlock,” he says quietly and she hates how even his name makes her flinch in pain. She holds him tighter and takes a deep breath.

“What about him?”

“He alluded to it at a crime scene once,” Greg admits.

“What’d he say?” she asks, curious despite herself.

“That I was obviously blind and stupid if I couldn’t tell that you were interested,” he answers, his voice wry. The cadence and tone is so _Sherlock_ that she can’t stop a little giggle escaping, even as she feels a punch to the gut at the same time.

“I hope Donovan wasn’t in the room,” she mutters, more to distract herself from the confusing feelings that Sherlock’s name brings.

“No,” he says, amused, “just the two of us in the room at the time, thank God.”

“Imagine that. Him, playing matchmaker.”

Greg laughs at that--an honest-to-God laugh. It strikes her that it’s been far too long since she heard it. “He said he was only saying anything because apparently our mutual angst on the subject was distracting, dull, and annoying.”

“All three, huh?” she says, wanting to laugh and cry at once. “When was this?”

“During the Laney case, when you were at the surgery...”

“Greg! That was _months_ ago!” she scolds him, looking up from his neck to glare at him. 

He shrugs, looking embarrassed. “I have no excuse.”

Jane rolls her eyes and rests her head again. “You can make it up to me later.”

“Yes, love,” he answers teasingly, and her head snaps up to look at him seriously.

“What?”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “That’s not a surprise, is it?” he asks calmly, though she knows him well enough by now that there’s a bit of worry in there, too.

She stares at him, taking in his face--weathered, worn, with fine wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, and all the more lovely for it--the warmth in his eyes, and the comfort that his body and his heart bring her.

“No,” she murmurs, “I don’t suppose it is. I just...” _never expected you to say it_ , she thinks. 

He looks down at her and runs his fingers through her hair. “I...know we said we’d take this day-to-day, but...I haven’t really done that for awhile now.”

“Me either,” she answers seriously.

He smiles at her, small and tired, but brilliant because it’s for her. “I’d like it if you stayed. Here, with me.”

She smiles in return before leaning over to kiss him lightly. “I’d like that.”

Greg relaxes--the little bit of tension that had built up in his body during their conversation easing away. “Good.”

She settles back against him and breathes him in, her eyes beginning to droop. “There is more to it than just that, isn’t there?”

“If there is, we’ll work it out. We’ve managed it this far.”

She smiles. Maybe the comfort is temporary, maybe tomorrow she’ll wake on a day without her best friend and the grief and pain will rush back in--the tide to the shore, inevitable and predictable--but she won’t be alone. She’ll have something to anchor her to the ground, and she won’t be pulled out into the deep, lost at sea.

“Yeah.”


End file.
